A lake on a mountain
open to the sky
……… (the lake has given calmness to the crater)
receiving what comes
rejecting nothing
……… (it is deep enough to hold all)
A feather falls in front
of the full moon
……… (a gift from the crows who call between the peaks)
Still waters receive its touch
and quiver
……… (a lover’s touch on quiet skin)
Clouds touch earth
as she lies next to the face of spirit.
……… (in the mist, the lover’s breath)
©photo and poem by caf
Intentions for a Yoga Practice
May what softens my body
Also soften my anger
May the difficulties of my practice
Melt the hardness of my heart
May stumbles and failures
Dissolve my arrogance
And the bondage of perfectionism be undone
May truth be allowed its say
And may I release whatever I have hoarded
May light heal all souls forever.
by caf
©photo and poem by caf
What good is a day?
What kind of day is it?
When loons on the lake wake you
calling your name in the early morn
after the Screech Owl kept you awake
all the long night before?
What good is a day?
What kind of day is it?
When the forest breeze
avoids disturbing the mist
gathered at the shore
and when you look closely
at the tree’s breath you see Beings
looking back at you
from milky air?
You want to follow them
but you also want breakfast
and – whispering – the visions tell you
that they have food
that will feed you
forever.
by caf
Photo and Poem © Carole Fults
The Magic Closet
She emptied her closet
the shirts and the pants
the blues and greens
the browns, blacks, reds and greens
She dusted the shelves
swept the floor
closed the door on emptiness
But then when later she passed by the door
she saw it open and bulging
with more things
stories in clothing
shoes filled with poetry
coats billowing
filled with memories
Life keeps her closet full
and may it be so while she lives
a bottomless source of fables, tales and metaphor
waiting to be heard.
by caf
Photo and Poem © Carole Fults
All the World is an Asana
We are petals on a flower practicing our yoga
This body is no longer strong or agile.
Dormancy has become her favorite posture
her light is not free but stored
She craves a change of asana.
Maples awaken in the distance with spring growth of swaying red buds
Birds and bugs fly and wiggle
stream currents flow
all moving beings in their unique
flowing, growing, flying and wiggling asanas.
Rocks still and sturdy in their unperturbed poses
the sun in fiery, shining warrior stance
and the moon in golden silent savasana –
They gaze at us and dream that all the world
has moved into the asana of loving.
by caf
© photo and poem by caf
Morning on Bennett Hill
It was a magical morning to be awake on Bennett Hill
The horses and cows were blowing fog from their nostrils
as geese and crows competed
for the shrouded airy currents.
The rising sun looked like a ghostly lantern
as it tried to penetrate the mysterious steam
that enfolded everything in a sheer gray woven fabric.
I heard a chorus of joy rising from the creek
and as I ran to discover the source of the song
I saw angels rising from the mist that blanketed the waters.
A gentle wind was stirring and the angels were chanting:
“Holy is the wind, Hallowed is the wind that stirs the waters
and brings us breath!”
As the breeze dispersed the mist and the sun burnt off the fog
I watched the chorus fade, still chanting.
And staring at the water I saw smiles in the waves
and heard laughter in the currents.
I took up the angel’s chant
“Holy is the wind. Hallowed is the wind that stirs the waters
and brings us breath!”
And I heard the wind reply:
“Holy is this earth. Hallowed is this Earth that calls our names
and gives us life.”
© Photo and Poem by Carole Fults
Today I Came Looking
Today I came to this woods looking for a poem
and this is what I found….
In the distance, in the trees
a luminescent wave of foggy sunlight is piercing everything,
delivering the energy of Life,
the love of God.
A bird floats back and forth and becomes transparent –
a foggy lamination playing in white and yellow currents
riding on the exhalation
of the breath of God.
I won’t hurry too quickly from this place.
I won’t say ‘I’ll be back tomorrow’,
For this light,this particular tantalizing light
is the face of Holiness.
by caf
©photo and poem by Carole A Fults
Fog and Shadow
This morning her drowsy heart throws off its covers
as she runs to the window and sees the thick fog
softening the edges of vapor filled light and shadow.
Blurry air conceals a presence not quite seen.
Misty mystery encircles large trees
home for familiars.
Secrets and adventures expect discovery
within the soft dimly lighted air.
Voices of the air – geese, ravens –
pierce the shadows covering the entrance to the otherwhere.
Cloaked prophets call from shrouded zones
bearing witness to what lives in hidden spaces.
Who can see through fog?
Who can arouse the oracle living in the filmy veil of shadow?
Whose face is that glowing and elusive?
Who murmurs in light and deep tones?
She moves into the dark side of the vapors
sliding between worlds
to the place where fog and shadow
sing to the clear light,
to magic,
to enchantment,
to the potential of embryos sprouting in the darkness,
to the birth of fire.
Lingering, listening, leaving
before she can hear the whole truth of unseen worlds,
she longs for the shadow, the unknowable, the impenetrable,
the center of the labyrinth.
The place where God creates and angels are still.
by caf
©photo and poem by caf
Today a Chickadee sat on my finger
a moment
happy not to be explained.
© Photo and poem by Carole A Fults
Coyote Wind
Did you hear the wind last night
howling up the creek
whistling in the snowy, twig shaped shadows
of January’s full moon?
Did you see the moon
last blustering night
brazenly brightening the deep sky
dark of clouds?
One time, when the gale quieted
and all sound was frozen silent
I slipped outside in time to see
a Screech Owl fly stage front shrieking
“Wild, wild everything is wild!
Everything is wild!”
The wind rose again as I huddled under a tree
It pushed me through a tunnel
into the reckless freedom of space and adventure,
shattering the stale sameness
that orbits everyday life.
It sang a new way into being and then,
returned me to my bed, freshened,
where the barking spirit of Coyote
stalked my sleep
and dreams dripped into an awakened life.
©Carole Fults photo and poem
